She’s still staring at me, and I decide that picking up my box of pastries is a very important activity that must be done right this second.
“I would think you’d be cheering for Ethan,” my mother says slowly.
Panic seizes me. She’s staring at me with Mom vision—knowing there’s something else going on here, but she’s not quite sure what.
“I’m not cheering for him when he’s being a jerk.” I pop open my box and take another bite of peppermint brownie in an effort to appear normal. GAH. Bad idea. My stomach is churning so much that I could puke it right back up.
I shift my attention back to the ice, over to Ethan sitting in his box, and resist the strong urge to go over there and murder him. How dare he take it upon himself to attack Aiden for dating me. HOW DARE HE. I don’t need to be protected or saved from Aiden! When is he going to see that I’m an adult? I’m a smart, capable woman who makes her own decisions.
And it’s high time my family trusted me to do it.
“Why are you staring at Ethan like that?”
I blink, finding my mom’s astute gaze pinned on me. “Like what?”
“Like you want to rip his head off.”
Well, she’s accurate about that.
“I don’t like stupid hockey.”
Mom continues to stare. I suddenly have a desire to go back to the private club and get a shot of tequila at the bar to fortify myself to get through this game.
I resume force-feeding myself my brownie, and Mom lets her line of questioning drop.
One thing is for sure. I’m not letting Ethan get away with this.
And he’s going to hear my thoughts as soon as this game is over.
* * *
After watching the Manatees lose 1-0 to Las Vegas, I wander the familiar basement corridors of the Premier Airlines Arena, my arms folded across my chest. I’m not headed to the Manatees lounge to wait for Aiden—like my heart so desperately desires—but going with my mom to meet Ethan outside of the visitors’ dressing room for a brief goodbye before he has to hop on the bus for the airport.
I managed to get my calm back for the rest of the game, butas we get closer to the visitor dressing room, my anger at Ethan resurfaces. We reach the area where we agreed to meet him, and my phone buzzes inside my clear bag. I step away from my mom, leaning against a concrete wall as I retrieve my phone. I see that Aiden has texted me back, answering the apology I sent him during the game.
You have nothing to apologize for, baby. Unless you told Ethan to try and beat the shit out of me.
I text him back:
I’m waiting for him now outside the visitor dressing room. I wish I were waiting for you instead.
Brooks is typing …
I promise you there will be a time when that will be the case.
I bite my lip. Aiden is still so hopeful that he can win Dad over, that he will find a way to get him to accept this, and everything will be okay.
If only I could share his optimism.
I fear the worst for Aiden, but one thing I know for sure. If Aiden is traded to another team?
That changes nothing between us.
We will figure out a way to make it work. It will be hard and painful, but that is the conversation we had late into the night, facing each other in bed, our limbs tangled together in his cool white sheets, our hands linked. We know what we have. Instead of panicking about it, we remained grounded in what we know is true.
We’re in love. And we’re going to stay that way.
Ethan steps out through the visitors’ dressing room doors, wearing a Las Vegas T-shirt and a backward baseball cap. I’m satisfied to see there is some bruising on his jaw, because he deserves it.
